


Can I kiss you here?

by Buttros



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Did I Mention Fluff, F/F, FemJohn, Femlock, Fluff, Post-Reichenbach, fem!lock, not quite smut, that's all, they see their boobs, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttros/pseuds/Buttros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always deemed herself to be a sensible woman, but John Watson has the power to render her speechless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I kiss you here?

Sherlock was lying on the sofa when she heard the front door opening and John Watson’s incidental steps towards the stairs.

After her last overdose, Sherlock found the need to master her emotions without the use of drugs. She did so compartmentalizing her feelings to such an extent that she almost saw them as numbers, or chemical equations. Between the years 2007 and 2010 Sherlock knew boredom and emptiness, so much so that she often wondered what the point was. The cases that Detective Inspector Lestrade provided were a palliative distraction, something to keep her going.

That was before John Watson.

She was soldier with a psychosomatic limp; a doctor with an adrenaline addiction; a small and angry woman who were horrible – if not soft - jumpers. 

Sherlock fell in love with her slowly and gradually, but she also fell in love with her right away. Her body knew that it wanted to keep this human forever before her mind did, which was infuriating for a woman who believed emotions only existed to cloud the judgment of reason. 

In the first few months of cohabitating Sherlock’s heart would beat faster for no reason, she would – dear god – blush all the time. Not to mention the countless times when she had to refrain from smiling. Realizing her feelings only made it worse, somehow. She dreamt of morning kisses, of cuddling on the sofa, of John’s hands combing her hair. She fantasized about late night kisses, about cuddling in her bed, about John’s hands massaging her back. 

But the life they led meant danger, and Sherlock’s actions, despite being fueled by love, caused her a level of pain that no even she could have predicted. She had to separate herself from John for two years. Her body knew that it wanted to go back to baker Street despite her mind’s objections, which was infuriating for a woman who had a mission to fulfill. And in all her pain, she managed to forget what John might feel. Sure, she knew that she would grieve, but she ignored – or perhaps miscalculated – how much.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa when John reached the first of the seventeen steps. She began crying when she reached the fifth. 

By the time John stood by the threshold Sherlock was already up and by the window, her back turned trying not to let her weakness show. She was wearing her pink silk dressing gown and some sweatpants (John’s sweatpants, to be exact. She stole a bunch of John’s clothes), and she hugged herself to try to master some composure. 

-The bedroom upstairs is just the way you left it. I – ah – cleaned it. Well, I’ve been cleaning it. And… I think we have food. Some toast-

-Sherlock – John interrupted her former (maybe current, depending on how the night went) flatmate, placing what sounded like a large suitcase on the floor – Will you please look at me? 

Sherlock swallowed, trying to discreetly dry her face with the back of her hand before turning around and _fuck_. But wasn’t John Watson the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. They had met only a couple of weeks from that day, when Sherlock interrupted what would have been a marriage proposal, but it still felt like ages ago.

John’s blond hair was short – it reached her shoulders – and she had a fringe that extended until her nose. It was in a half-up ponytail. She was wearing her grey jumper – the one that she wore on their first dinner at Angelo’s – and a pair of black jeans. Her beautiful face, Sherlock loved to focus on that. Her laughter lines around her indigo eyes and her lovely lips. _She’s an angel._

Said lovely lips were mouthing a word. Her name. _Sherlock. Oh Love._ And John was walking towards her. John’s hands were suddenly holding Sherlock’s face as if she were a China Doll. As if she were the most precious thing in the world. 

-I’m sorry – Sherlock sobbed, tears uninhibited, and continued mumbling – I know I shouldn’t have left you. I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t. I _hurt_ you and that’s the only thing that I vouched myself to never do and I still did it and-

-Hush – John whispered, running her thumps on Sherlock’s face, cleaning away the tears, and sitting her down on the sofa. She, herself, knelt on the sofa and sat on her ankles, so they were on the same level – Moriarty forced you to do it. We were met with a worthy opponent, and he forced us to be apart. But Sherlock-

She took a moment there to run her fingers through Sherlock’s curls, a gentle smile playing on her lips. 

-He didn’t win. 

Sherlock sobbed and bit her lip.

-You were hurt. I was hurt. He separated us.

-He _didn’t_ win – She said emphatically – Because we are together now.

And Sherlock, who rarely allowed herself to hope, did just that. She raised her eyes to John’s beautiful ones, seeing nothing but affection there. She was trying to communicate something, to show what her words couldn’t, but Sherlock – the brightest person in any room - was slow on the message. 

-So… in fact…

-Yes – John smiled and ran her fingers through Sherlock’s hair again, which was really distracting because Sherlock was trying to have an epiphany. 

-I’m your…

-Yes – John stretched the ‘e’, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock’s temple. 

-You’re my…

-If you want me to be – John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s ear and running her nose down her neck. The detective, predictably, was reduced to a blushing puddle of gasps – You smell like honey, baby bee. 

-O nhg – Sherlock moaned. It wasn’t her finest or most articulate hour. 

John kept at that for some time, eventually going to the other side of her neck, but soon murmured:

-Can I kiss you here? – John pointed at Sherlock’s collar bone.

-Nhg – Which, in Sherlock language, meant yes. 

John seemed to be fluent at it. 

-What about here? – She pointed at somewhere else, received her moaned response and kissed the area at question – And here? – Another kiss – Here? – Yet another. 

So Sherlock proceeded to being kissed at multiple areas of her chest, and some of her neck. John eventually placed the tip of her finger on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

-Can I kiss you here? 

Sherlock, who started crying again, nodded. And John, beautiful, fantastic, brilliant, luminous John, made a point of caressing every inch of Sherlock’s face with her fingertips before trapping her bottom lip between her own. Their mouths softly danced around each other, curious tongues and breathy gasps setting the rhythm.

At one point John asked if she could take off her jumper, to which Sherlock said:

-Nhg.

Which earned her a giggle from John. 

John took off her shoes and socks too, before diving in for another kiss. Sherlock, with the part of her brain which still seemed to be working, deduced quite brilliantly that John was only wearing her jeans ( _boring_ ) and bra – which was light brow and doing its work splendidly. 

She, bravely, raised her hand to trace her fingers on John’s belly – which made John smile against her lips – and then in between her breasts. 

‘Can _I_ kiss you here?’ Sherlock would have asked if she still possessed the ability to speak. Instead she raised John’s chin softy and bent her head, making sure to worship every inch of John’s torso while she was at it. John, in turn, caressed Sherlock’s hair humming her approval. 

She stopped her ministrations – to Sherlock’s confusion – to take off her bra, which caused the shutdown of Sherlock’s vascular and cardiac systems. 

-Love? – John murmured, sounding concerned when her flatmate froze – Was that too fast? 

-How can a human being be so perfect? I don’t understand – Sherlock murmured to herself, awestruck, making John giggle. 

-Who knew that you would be such a sap? – John pulled Sherlock in for another kiss – A sap that is wearing too many clothes, I might add. 

-I’m not a sap – Sherlock pouted, but removed her dressing gown anyway. She never wore bras, which was convenient at this very moment. 

John took a moment to just look. Then she touched. Then she straddled Sherlock’s lap and continued to kiss her silly. 

Time seemed to stand still as they held each other, as if the universe was trying to compensate for all the years that they spent apart. Sherlock committed to memory every sound, every texture and every feeling because she knew that she would want to remember that night and all its details when she became old and grey. 

The morning sun found the two women tangled in each other’s limbs on the sofa, sleeping peacefully. Mrs. Hudson took a mental note to talk to the girls about what sort of behavior was decent, which didn’t include awakening your landlady in the middle of the night _or_ nudity in the leaving room.


End file.
